


A Con-dirella Story

by StormDancer



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comicon, Conventions, Famous Harry, In Which I Show My Nerd Cred, M/M, Nerdiness, Non-Famous Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2586158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormDancer/pseuds/StormDancer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, an actor was forbidden to go to Comicon. But his fairy godmother had given him a mask, which he could wear to go no matter what anyone said. But, she warned, he could not stay forever, for he would be unmasked at the stroke of six. And so he went to the con, and there he met the most beautiful boy in all of Manhattan, and they wiled away the day together with much joy. Yet the clock ticked ever on, ever on, ever on...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Con-dirella Story

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that time I went to Comicon? Remember that time it gave me plot bunnies? Remember how those bunnies turned into over 10k? So do I. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta as per usual. And shout outs to all other Con-goers out there. 
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply, including, but not limited to, not knowing anything about the boys, apologies if I got my comic book canon messed up, and this con experience is based off the NYCC and is not representative of any past or future cons.

It’s not technically stealing. Hardly at all, really. Maybe heavy borrowing, at most. And Harry means to give the suit back. He just, well, he may not know much about nerd culture, or whatever the PR people who’ve prepped him call it, or about cons, but he knows enough that sitting in his apartment waiting to go onto the panel isn’t how he wants to interact with Comicon, not even if it’s how he’s supposed to. He was lucky enough to land the role of the Flash, and he wants to see the people he’s been acting for for the last year without a panel table between them.

So really, it’s his costume. He’s the one who wears it. The suit was meant for Harry to wear to the panel, after all, because they didn’t want to risk the real on-set one, so it’s not stealing for him to put it on a bit early, before the panel this evening. And it’s not skivving off to sneak out in costume and onto the con floor. This is market research. This is important stuff. This is for his career.

Still, he didn’t know what to expect. He’d watched videos of old con interviews, and he’d been prepped, but that was all of the panels. The floor, though—the floor is crazy, a mass of people all talking excitedly and stopping for pictures and pointing and laughing and ducking around each other and showing off their new things. Harry dodges a robot, three people he thinks are something from Doctor Who, two sets of wings, and almost gets his eye taken out by a foam sword within the first five minutes, and those aren’t even the most out-there costumes. It’s mad, and chaotic, and more than a little insane.

Harry loves it. Loves it immediately, the energy and excitement. He doesn’t know what most of it is for, even if he sees a few Flash costumes (not made of the spandex of Harry’s costume, but still), but Harry’s been so worried about image and perception and all those other things for so long that all this uncomplicated zeal feels new. He catches it easily, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tries to decide where to start first. He wants to see _everything_.

He picks a direction at random, letting the crowd carry him through stalls of corsets and action figures and some really cool watches he thinks about getting for Liam. But Liam’s probably already seen all this—he knows this stuff, was so excited when he got cast as Green Lantern, talks to the writers about canon and multiverses and things Harry thinks might be in another language—so Harry passes by. He only has a card anyway, because there’s barely room for more than that and his phone in the costume.

He tries to turn down a new aisle, has to stumble backwards to avoid a guy with a scythe bigger than his head, then gets shoved forward by a girl in a Captain America costume and nearly trips over a little kid dressed up as Spiderman. It’s dangerous up here, especially for someone as clumsy as Harry, so Harry lets himself be taken downstairs. He’d like to see a panel before he has to do his own.

He wishes he could get to the Main Stage to see where his panel will be, but apparently that’s more complicated, so he picks a line at random. Everyone else is sitting down, stretching out their legs, and Harry’s pretty sore too—he’s been on his feet for a while, and while his boots are fairly comfortable, they aren’t the best. So he sits down too, kicking out his legs in front of him.

He sits there for fifteen minutes, watching the people pass in front of him, to their own lines, before his attention is caught by the people in front of him. There are three guys there, about Harry’s age. One’s in an Iron Man costume with his helmet off, with light brown hair and a pointed face. His hands wave as he talks at the guy sitting across from him, a blonde in jeans and a white tank top, who’s smiling as he listens to the first guy talk about—what sounds like something about Marvel, Harry can’t follow it exactly, and doesn’t really try to. Superheroes are well enough, but they’re a bit simplistic, Harry’s always thought. It’s not like good always does win, not if you look at the wider picture of the world.

But there’s only so much Harry can think about the plight of orphans in the third world, because the third guy—the third guy is sitting next to Iron Man, close enough he’s basically leaning on him. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back like he’s asleep. He’s in something that looks like a costume but Harry can’t place, black jeans and a leather jacket and flames painted up on his neck and down his hands, intricate designs of red and orange, with a blonde streak in his dark hair, right at the front of a roughly styled quiff. He’s the prettiest person Harry has ever seen.

Harry blinks, but he’s still there when Harry opens his eyes again. Harry knows pretty people, hangs out with movie stars—he is a movie star. He’s dated models and pop stars and everything. He’s stopped thinking in terms of beauty anymore, it feels like, because everyone is hot, so it doesn’t even matter anymore. He knows perfectly well people want him now more for his name than his looks.

But this guy…somehow, this guy has Harry immediately thinking about smudging the flame make-up, has him imagining what it would be like to touch the cheekbones that stand out strongly on his face, to trace the straight line of his nose, to brush the eyelashes that are lying across his cheek, long and dark. Harry hasn’t felt like this for so long, the sudden overwhelming rush of attraction and want, of fascination.

“Right?” Iron Man says, loud enough Harry blinks again, pulls his gaze away, hopefully before anyone notices he’s staring. Instead, he ends up looking at Iron Man, who’s—who’s looking right at him, looking at him like he expects an answer.

“What?” he tries. He smiles a little tentatively. If these people have figured out who he is…

“Don’t you think that they should be clearing rooms?” Iron Man demands, his eyes narrowing like he’s going to blame Harry personally for this if he says the wrong answer. “Now we’re stuck sitting in lines for hours—”

“We’d be in lines for hours anyway.” Harry’s breath catches. He hadn’t imagined the guy’s voice could sound like this, rough and warm all at once, like Harry wants him whispering to him all the time. He doesn’t open his eyes as he talks, barely seems to wake up. “Leave the innocent bystander alone, Lou.”

Lou rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but then we could figure out if we got in, not this bullshit.”

“And complaining’s not going to make us more likely to see anything.” The guy yawns, nudges Lou’s shoulder with his cheek, like a cat asking to be pet. Harry volunteers to do the petting. “So don’t antagonize people who didn’t do anything, yeah?”

“But—”

“But your complaining’s getting loud,” the blonde says, less like he’s complaining and more like he’s observing.

“Because it’s worth complaining about!” Lou crosses his arms over his chest as well as he can with his costume, his lips pressed together. “I really wanted this one! If we don’t get it I’ll—”

“Whine about it until something shiny distracts you, we know,” the hot guy drawls.

“Well at least I’m awake!”

“I’m awake.” As if to prove it, he opens his eyes, lifts his head off of Lou. His eyes are a bright, clear hazel, big in his face. Harry didn’t know it was possible for him to get hotter. “No thanks to you.”

“You wanted to wake up just as early as me,” Lou retorted. “In fact, you were all ‘maybe we should get there a little sooner, we want to optimize our time there, if we don’t get in line in time—”

“Well neither of you would go out with me last night, so you’re both wankers,” the blonde puts in. He doesn’t sound particularly mad.

“Didn’t want to be hung over.”

The hot guy just shrugs, like that’s an answer. Now that his eyes are open, he looks around—and his gaze falls on Harry. Harry swallows down the urge to blush as red as his costume. It doesn’t make sense; he’s just a hot guy. Harry knows hot guys. Harry is a hot guy. Just because he’d really like to get this guy back to his bed right about now doesn’t mean he should be flustered, when he’s met fucking Gary Oldman and didn’t freak out at all. He’s Harry Styles. He’s cool.

“Sorry,” the guy says. His voice is even hotter when it’s directed at Harry. “Louis here’s just grumpy.”

“It’s fine!” Harry gives him his best smile, the dimpled one that makes everyone like him. It doesn’t exactly work in full—the guy isn’t in his lap at all—but it gets him a tentative smile. And, even better, a,

“Sick costume, mate.”

“Thanks.” Harry doesn’t really think he can take credit for it, but it is the best suit he’s seen so far, even if he’s left off the gloves because they’d be too annoying. “I—what’s yours?”

Hot guy ducks his head, bashfully. “It’s Ghostrider. It’s pretty obscure, like, they’ve just done this new reboot, and I look a bit like him—”

Louis snorts, turning so he’s pressed against hot guy’s back, his chin tucked over his shoulder. Boyfriend, probably, fuck. Oh well. Harry is perfectly happy just to look at the hot guy. It’s not like anything could have happened anyway. “What Zayn’s not saying is that they actually based the character on him.”

“Louis! They didn’t.”

“They said so. Said it was based off of an intern they had had—”

“It could have been anyone.”

“It was you,” The blonde throws in, and the hot guy—Zayn—grins at him, still smiling that soft, sheepish smile. It makes Harry want to hug him. Except his boyfriend’s already basically doing that, and the blonde taps his foot against Zayn’s leg, so instead Harry just grins at him.

“That’s awesome!”

“I know.” Zayn smiles back. “So, big Flash fan?”

“Yeah, that’s an intense costume,” Louis agrees.

“Um, yeah!” For a given degree of fan, Harry figures. He knows a lot about it. “Obviously. But this is my first convention.” He shrugs, because his knowledge of the Flash won’t actually hold up to much, and he’s loving this, the easy conversation with three random boys, even if the one Harry would really like to know better looks pretty not single. It’s a rush, them not knowing who he is and talking to him anyway, makes everything feel new. “What’s this line for?”

The blonde starts guffawing. Louis and Zayn shoot him almost identical incredulous looks. “You don’t know?” Louis asks, after a beat of stunned silence.

“Just saw a line and got in it.”

Harry expects, from the short time he’s known them, that it would be Louis who replies, but instead it’s Zayn, his eyes lighting up excitedly. “It’s about Guardians of the Galaxy! The whole history, with all these creators, and it’s gonna be awesome!”

“If we get in,” Louis adds, grumpily, and digs in a pocket to pull out his phone. “10:45,” he informs them.

“We’ll move soon,” the blonde points out. “So—hey. I’m Niall. What’s your name?”

“Harry.” Louis snorts, and Zayn’s lips twitch. “What?”

“Just, a Harry wearing a Flash costume. Bit ironic, yeah?” Zayn points out. “What with Harry Styles and all.” His head tilts, and there’s something about his look that’s unduly piercing, like he can see right through Harry. For the first time, Harry’s self-conscious about how tight his suit is. “Your voice even sounds a bit like his.”

Harry forces out a laugh. “Maybe I am Harry Styles,” he proposes, wiggling his fingers like he’s casting a spell. “Here to walk among you as your alter ego!”

Louis snorts. “Right. Like Harry Styles would have the balls to come here.”

“What does that mean?” Harry demands. He has balls! He has plenty of balls! He would have come here as himself if his agent had let him! Well, and if it wouldn’t have been difficult to arrange, with the mobs.

“Louis doesn’t have high hopes for the new movie,” Zayn explains.

“I don’t think we needed a movie at all,” Louis adds. His voice takes on the same sort of fervor Liam’s gets, when he talks about comics. “Movies always ruin things, remember the Batnipples? And I’ve seen the stills they’ve released, and it looks stupid. Styles is all wrong. He’s too big, and he’s too cute. Wally isn’t cute.”

“Think he’s cute, Lou?” Niall cuts in. Harry tries to pay attention. It’s not the first time he’s gotten criticism, or even that criticism. He can handle it with grace. If he couldn’t, he’d need to get out of this industry.

“Nah, leave that to Zayn,” Louis shoots back. “And Styles doesn’t even know anything about the genre or anything, he’s only been in artsy films before, probably thinks this is lowering himself or something.”

Harry takes a second before he responds. This is a change for him, it’s true. He knows he has a lot to prove before he breaks into the mainstream, before he can pull a Andrew Garfield or something, that his is his break to really hit it big. It’s why he took a superhero movie part—well, that and the chance to work with Liam. But still,

“You agree?” he asks Zayn, evenly.

Zayn shrugs. “Could be. But I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You just want to watch him in spandex for two hours,” Louis accuses.

Zayn chuckles, low and deep. “’Course I do. Have you seen his ass?” Then his gaze darts to Harry again, a quick up and down that Harry knows is him being checked out, with eyes dancing. “Or maybe it’s just the costume.”

“Hard to hide anything in this thing,” Harry agrees, grinning back. Maybe he was wrong about the whole boyfriends thing.

Or maybe he wasn’t, because Louis’s reaction is to pinch Zayn’s side, hard enough he winces. “Hotness is no excuse for a bastardizing a beloved hero, Zaynie. You know that.”

“I know you’re an asshole,” Zayn retorts. Niall laughs again, and turns to Harry.

“So, you live here in New York?”

\---

By the time the line is moving, Harry learns that the three boys have been friends since college. Niall does something to do with consulting or finance that apparently makes a lot of money, given the other two’s teasing; Louis’s a middle school teacher; Zayn actually works at DC—just an assistant, he claims, but the other two staunchly insist he’ll be drawing his own line soon. They all lived together for a while, but now Louis lives with his girlfriend—Harry does an internal cheer—so it’s just Zayn and Niall and Niall works crazy hours for his job. They could only afford to come to Comicon for Saturday this year, but Louis and Zayn go to as many cons as they can, have for years; Niall occasionally gets dragged along because, as Harry quickly sees, he’s possibly the most easy-going person Harry’s ever met. Zayn’s got this way of smiling that makes his whole face crinkle up and make Harry want to lick it. Zayn has a habit of wetting his lips a lot and Harry can’t decide if it’s on purpose or not but either way Harry can’t look at it for long without worrying about how tight his costume is.

Harry manages not to tell them very much about himself, just that he lives in New York—which he does, some of the time—and that he’s doing the acting thing, which he is, technically. They don’t seem to doubt him at all, which makes Harry feel a little bad until the next time Zayn smiles at him, and it’s knocked out of his mind. They wouldn’t be talking to him at all if they knew who he was, so it’s worth it. It’s only a little lie of omission.

When the line finally starts to move, they all scramble to their feet. Zayn’s shorter than Harry, which Harry somehow wasn’t expecting, but he’s shorter and narrow. All of them are pretty short, which might be why Harry didn’t realize Zayn was, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is how Zayn’s eyes do another one of those quick tracks up his body when he stands, as he stretches out the kinks of his back. Harry exaggerates the stretch, just because. He’s had to get into insane shape for this movie, it’s nice to have it appreciated.

They file in—Louis gives a low whoop when they cross the threshold, and he and Zayn fist bump without even looking at their hands—and somehow Harry ends up sitting next to Zayn, with Louis on Zayn’s other side, and Niall on the end.

The panel’s interesting enough. Harry doesn’t really know what they’re talking about, but it’s good to see the format of the panel. And the crowd is great, which is encouraging, a lot of enthusiastic cheering and clapping. He knows he’s too controversial for that, but there’s all this energy, and that’s what Harry really loves. It’s nice, after talk shows for some of his previous movies where everyone is too concerned about looking cool to clap.

He’s also enjoying watching Zayn, because he’s so engaged with the panelists, nodding along or making faces or biting his lip like he wants to say something. He sits spread out, his knees spread in a lazy way that makes Harry think of how well he’d fit between them, but it also means their knees are touching, a solid steady pressure that distracts Harry even more. It means he clearly has to press his leg against Zayn too, wiggle a little closer so their thighs are pressed together. Zayn gives him a sidelong look at that, but it’s not a question, it’s just heated, so Harry want to squirm. Instead, because he can play it hard to get, he gives Zayn his best innocent smile, and Zayn’s lips twitch when he turns back to the stage.

Harry applauds politely when the panel’s over, and everyone else whoops and cheers. It was fun, he guesses. Not as interesting as the floor, but that’s probably because he didn’t know what they were talking about. The other boys certainly seem interested, chattering at each other about different points that were made and whether or not Louis cried at the movie. (He did, according to both Zayn and Niall, though Louis insists, not very convincingly, that they hallucinated it). It’s hysterical, and Harry’s laughing along, but when they get into the crowded hall he hesitates. He should probably go, not intrude on them any longer.

So he pauses, or moves a bit away as the crowd sweeps them towards the escalators back up to the floor. “So, I should…” he trails off.

Zayn gives him a quick look through his eyelashes. It’s really not fair. Harry’s stood up to people a lot more practiced than him propositioning him, how is this guy so overwhelming? “Are you—like, do you have a plan? People to meet?”

Harry shakes his head. “Nope. On my lonely own.” Well, until six, when his panel starts, but he can’t say that.

Zayn glances at Niall, then at Louis. He must read something in their faces that Harry doesn’t, because he suggests, “You could stick with us. Let us show you the con.”

Louis’s nodding, and Niall grins, and Zayn’s giving him a small smile that looks sort of like he’s hopeful but expecting Harry to say no, so Harry grins instead. “Sure!”

“Great!” Louis claps his hands. “Back to the floor we go.”

“The WETA workshop booth?” Zayn asks. “I want—”

“We can put them—”

“The swords over the mantel, yeah, but I want a pendant too.”

Louis rolls his eyes, grabs at the necklace Harry hadn’t even noticed, a ring on a chain. “More necklaces, Zaynie?”

“Think jewelry can’t be manly?” Zayn retorts, as they get onto the escalator. Zayn’s behind Harry, but he twists around so he can see them, and he thinks he might see Zayn’s gaze dart away from his ass when he looks. “Thought you were gonna get your ears pierced, Lou.”

“Fuck no. Just ‘cause you can pull anything off—”

Niall elbows Harry gently, and Harry pulls his gaze away from where he just noticed Zayn’s ears are pierced to him. “Good as a comedy show, aren’t they?” he says.

“They always like this?”

Niall shrugs. “Sometimes. Sometimes they’re worse.”

“We’re wonderful,” Louis interrupts. “Stop spreading lies, Niall, we don’t want Zayn’s new—”

“He’s worse,” Zayn cuts in, which is a real pity because Harry would quite like to hear about what he is to Zayn. He might even have asked, except they’re getting off the escalator, and Zayn and Louis suddenly set off with great purpose into the crowd, Niall and Harry trailing behind.

It doesn’t last that way for long—pretty soon, somehow Niall’s in between Zayn and Louis, in a move that looks almost practiced. It’s nice because it sets Zayn right beside Harry, and sometimes he has to grab Harry’s shoulder to keep him near them.

“Hey!” a guy taps Harry on the shoulder, and Harry whirls. Fuck, he’s totally been caught, he’s going to be mobbed and—and the guy is just smiling. “That’s an awesome costume—can I take a picture?”

“Sure!” The costume people are going to kill him, but whatever. Harry poses in his best running pose, the one all the posters have, as Zayn snags Louis’s wrist for them to wait. They guy snaps a photo—then a few others do too, so Harry smiles at them as well. It’s nice, the anonymity, that people aren’t trying to get close to him because of who he’s suddenly become, just because they admire his costume.

The photos die off, and Harry falls back into step with Zayn.

“Enjoying yourself?” Zayn asks. When Harry tilts his head at him, Zayn raises his hand like he’s going to touch him. Harry steels himself, because jumping Zayn in the middle of the room probably isn’t allowed—and the brush of Zayn’s finger against his dimple sends a ripple of heat through him anyway.

“Yeah,” Harry replies, when he gets his voice back. “I didn’t think I would this much, honestly.”

“It’s a place to not be yourself,” Zayn agrees. “An escape, you know?”

“Yeah.” Harry taps at his head, at the mask. “I know.”

Zayn laughs again. “Can’t imagine what you’re pretending not to be.”

“Why not?” There are plenty of things that Harry likes about the mask, about this other place where he can wear spandex without anyone looking twice except to admire and where everyone’s smiling at each other.

“You’re—” Zayn bites at his lip again. “Never mind, we’re falling behind.”

“Zayn!” When Zayn dodges around a Dalek, he tries to follow, but he gets cut off by some anime girl, and by the time he’s managed to catch up to Zayn he’s thrown an arm around Louis and Louis’s whispering in his ear.

WETA workshop is awesome—the people who designed the Lord of the Rings movie, Zayn explains excitedly, as he and Louis ooh and aah over the replicas of Thorin’s sword. The three of them get into a very serious discussion about finances Harry doesn’t listen to. Instead, he wanders over to a display case with jewelry in it, replicas even he recognizes, though the labels help.

“Fuck, look at that,” Someone mutters over his shoulder, and somehow Harry doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Zayn. He’s close to Harry, pressed in at his side by the crowds, but his eyes are fixed inside the case.

“Which one?”

“The brooch. The elven leaf.” He gestures to a leaf pendant, green and silver. It’s gorgeous, really.

“What was that again?” Harry asks, though. He watched the movies, but only the once, and mainly for Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortenson. It’s still not clear why they didn’t just fly the ring to the mountain, or whatever.

“They’re brooches Galadriel gave to the fellowship when they left Lothlorien. When Pippin and Merry were kidnapped, Pippin dropped it to tell Aragorn that they had been there.” Zayn hums. “Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall,” he says—or quotes, Harry figures—something of a hush in his voice. “Fuck, what I’d kill for that.”

“Why don’t you get it?”

Zayn snorts. “See that price tag? I don’t have an extra two hundred dollars.”

Right. Harry’d forgotten, somewhere along the way, that he has a lot more money to burn than other people. Zayn shakes his head, goes on. “Maybe I can find a knock off somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, vaguely. It would probably be weird to buy it for him, for this pretty boy with the come hither smirk. Also, he doesn’t think he could manage it without a lot of awkward questions. “What else did you get?” he asks instead, to distract Zayn, because he dislikes the frown on his face or the wrinkles in his brow with an almost vicious hatred. He wants the boy who was flirting with him downstairs back.

“Oh, the dagger…” Zayn starts to tell Harry about their purchases, and he lights back up, and it feels like Harry can breathe again.

\---

They wander for a while after the WETA booth. Harry mainly plays spot the cosplay, as the other three look at merchandise, but he’s drawn into some booths too, some because they have beautiful craftsmanship, like the filigree silver rings at one booth, some because they’re just weird, like the anime costume places, and some because they have pictures of his face on them, like the one selling the official Flash merchandise. Louis snorts loudly as he walks by it, but Harry stops to look. He wants to see what’s selling, what’s not.

Zayn slows down next to him, Niall a beat behind. Louis makes a face, but he dodges a Castiel and circles back around too. The posters Harry signed are almost out, which is cool, and so are the t-shirts, but there are a lot of things still there. Harry flicks through the rack of posters, frowning at it.

“Looking for something in particular?” Zayn asks. He has a habit of just appearing by Harry, in a way that should make him jump but instead just makes him shiver with something like anticipation.

“No. Just seeing what there is.” He pauses, then, “Are you going to the Flash panel tonight?”

“Sure, got my wristband and everything.” Zayn shakes back his jacket to reveal his the green band around his wrist. Harry’s more focused on the ink it reveals over thin wrists below where the paint starts, lines of color that have Harry reaching out to grab before he can think. Zayn starts back, but he doesn’t pull away when Harry turns his arm over to inspect. The ink wraps around his arm, over a pulse point Harry’s trying mightily to resist just pressing his lips to, disappears under his jacket like there’s more. Harry wants to find it. Wants to find out everything about this gorgeous boy who invited a stranger to share his day on little more than a whim.

Zayn’s voice is a bit rough when he goes on, “You going?”

“Going?” Harry asks, idly, as he strokes his thumb over the place where Zayn’s blood thrums closest to his skin. His skin’s soft there, his wrists almost delicate under Harry’s big hand.

“To the panel,” Zayn says, his voice even. But when Harry glances up at him, to buy himself a bit of time, Zayn’s just looking at him, his gaze hot and unfaltering. Harry grins.

“Didn’t get down there in time.” Zayn’s hand is on his hip, somehow, and even though Harry knows there’s a layer of thick cloth between them it still feels like it’s burning.

“Oh.” Zayn glances at the strip of paper. They’re inches apart, close enough Harry can count his eyelashes as he blinks, close enough he can see the freckle in one of Zayn’s eyes. “You could have mine, I guess, if you want.”

“I couldn’t take it from you.” Harry rests his hand on Zayn’s shoulder, over the rough leather, starts it inching towards the skin of his neck, all that paint he wants to smudge, to get smeared on his face and his thighs. “You sat in line for it.”

“You’re the major fan, though.” Zayn’s hand wanders faster than Harry’s, sliding around his hip so it’s brushing against his ass and Harry sucks in a breath. “I—” Something buzzes. Zayn cuts himself off, his eyebrows furrowing as he looks at Harry’s hips with a confusion that is not at all the expression Harry wants when Zayn is looking in that general area. “What’s that?”

“Phone.” It buzzes again, and Harry swears. He should have known he couldn’t disappear forever. But why did they have to call now? He’d been so close—“I really should get that.”

“Yeah, of course.” Zayn’s hand drops away. Much more reluctantly, Harry lets go of his wrist, then his neck, to dig into the tiny pouch built into the suit. “Didn’t know that thing had pockets.”

“Just barely. Need my phone,” Harry explains, twisting that extra inch that lets his phone slip out. He glances at the caller ID—Liam. Thank God. Liam means he’s covering for him. “I’m gonna go somewhere quieter,” he tells Zayn.

“I’ll be here,” Zayn replies, and turns to go find Louis. Harry watches him for a second, the way the jeans cling to his narrow hips, the little curve of his ass—then he shakes his head, and slides his phone open to answer.

“Hey, Liam!” He greets him cheerily, sliding towards a nearby wall where at least he won’t be jostled. “Fancy hearing you!”

“Where are you?” Liam demands. Oh, he’s mad. Very mad, if he isn’t wasting time on pleasantries. “Everyone’s gone mad. You haven’t been answering your texts.”

“I haven’t?” Harry brings the phone away to his ear, but he doesn’t see any notifications. “I think reception’s really spotty in here. Sorry.” He is, sort of. “I didn’t want anyone to worry.”

“In here?” Liam takes on the tone of voice that makes Harry stand up straighter, like his mum’s coming home. “Harry, where are you?”

Harry thinks for a second about lying, but he’s shit at lying to Liam. “At Comicon?”

“Comicon!” Liam yelps. “How come—twitter would have exploded!”

“I’m kind of in costume?” Harry rubs over the cowl, where he would tug at his hair if it wasn’t tucked underneath it. “No one can see my face.”

“You stole the costume?” Liam echoes, which wasn’t what Harry said at all, but still,

“No. Borrowed,” Harry corrects, “I was supposed to wear it to the con. I’m just…early.”

“Harry.”

“I wanted to see!” Harry puts on his best wheedling voice. Liam can’t really stand up to it, no one can. It’s a really great power to have. “It’s fine, I’m fine, I’ll be at the panel.”

“Do you want me to come?” Liam asks, and that’s why Harry loves Liam. Because he doesn’t scold any more than that, when he knows Harry’s safe. “Show you things? I could find a Batman costume somewhere, I’m sure.”

“No.” Harry says it too fast, probably, but if he stands on his tip-toes he can see Zayn talking to Niall, as Louis types on his phone. Zayn’s head is curved and Harry can see the arch of his neck right beneath his hairline. “No, I made some friends, I’ll be fine.”

“Friends? Or _friends_?” Liam drawls. He knows Harry too well.

“Liam,” Harry whines. Then he smirks, even if Liam can’t see. “I hope _friend._ ”

“Take off your hood and I bet anyone in that place would get on their knees for you.”

Harry bites his lip. He’s not sure about that, even with Louis’s teasing about how Zayn thinks he’s fit. Famous him. Movie star him. But something is happening with this Zayn who doesn’t know who he is, with Zayn looking at this masked him with hot eyes and hands that are wandering in the best way, who whispers in his ear. “I’ll think about it,” he says at last. But he won’t, and he knows it. He’s not going to give up how Zayn looks at him. It’s only going to last a few more hours, anyway. “Can you keep everyone off of me, Li? I’ll be at the panel in plenty of time.”

Liam sighs. “If they’re going to the panel, they’ll want to get in line an hour early anyway. I’ll text you where we are.”

“You’re my favorite,” Harry informs him. He can almost hear Liam roll his eyes.

“You better get laid for this,” he warns, and Harry blows him a smacking kiss before he hangs up. He has hopes.

It takes a lot of wiggling, but Harry gets his phone back into his pocket, then heads back into the fray. He gets to the booth, but he doesn’t see Zayn or anyone. They wouldn’t have left him, maybe—

“Hey, babe.” The voice is quiet in his ear again, but the heat against his back makes his heart beat louder. Zayn’s not touching him, but it feels like he’s touching him everywhere. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just a friend checking in.” It’s not a lie. Harry hasn’t said any lies today. “Sorry.”

“No problem.” Zayn eases around him, still that hair’s breadth away. Harry cannot wait until this tension comes to fruition, until he finally gets to taste that tongue that keeps sneaking out so temptingly from between Zayn’s lips. “Gave Louis an excuse to browse without feeling like he was selling out.”

“It’d only be selling out if I bought something,” Louis inserts. Harry jumps, but he doesn’t move away from Zayn. “Anyway, El texted, she’s here. I’m going to wander with her until the Flash panel.”

“No bros before hos?” Zayn teases.

“She’s in a Pepper Potts costume, apparently. You aren’t that pretty in heels, bro,” Louis retorts. “Nialler, I’m off.”

Niall nods. Harry doesn’t even know where he came from. They keep sprouting up. “I’m gonna step outside for a bit,” he tells Zayn, as Louis sets off into the crowd. “It’s a little—”

“You okay?” Zayn steps away from Harry to put a hand on Niall’s shoulder, peering down into his eyes like he’s expecting them to be dilated.

“Yeah, fine, no need to fuss.” Niall shoves him gently away. “Just need some air.”

“Want me to come?”

Niall glances at Harry, who does his best to look sympathetic while also praying he says no. But if Niall does need his friend, Harry will be okay with that, because he is a good person. Really. “Nah. Have fun here. You gotta make the most of your day.”

Zayn grins, and Harry’s breath catches yet again. He shouldn’t be able to keep getting hotter, yet he does. “Text me if you need anything, yeah? Like, whatever.”

“It’s fine, Zayn,” Niall laughs, and then reaches out to poke both his nipples then his belly button, like a ritual. Zayn curls in around the belly poke, still laughing. “Enjoy yourself.” He winks, not subtly at all, then he’s gone too.

“Is he okay?” Harry asks, watching him go. He’s being a good person, there.

“Yeah, he just gets, like, claustrophobic in the crowds.” Zayn makes a concerned face for a second, biting at his lip, then it’s gone, and there’s something wicked in his gaze as he looks at Harry, one side of his mouth curling up into a smile. “And then there were two. What do you want to see?”

“Everything,” Harry declares, and Zayn laughs, wrapping his hand around Harry’s wrist before he’s pulling him into the aisle.

\---

They keep on wandering, sometimes Zayn pulling Harry to see a booth he remembers from last year, sometimes Harry catching sigh of something cool and dragging Zayn after him. They go to another panel Zayn wanted to see, about the making of comics, and it’s cool too, a very different vibe than the one before, calmer, almost more what Harry’s used to. Then it’s back up to the floor, Harry letting Zayn lead the way, just trying to keep a hold of him as he slides easily through the crowd like he knows all the ebbs and flows. Harry’s willing to let him lead, and not only because it gives him an opportunity to ogle.

Harry’s stopped for a bunch more pictures, and Zayn’s stopped for a few too. He shifts awkwardly when they ask, but he nods and steps towards the wall where there’s room, even if he doesn’t strike a particular pose. The last people who ask are two teenaged girls who titter when he smiles at them, and Harry can’t help but grin at how Zayn doesn’t seem to really know what to do with that, just grins back and chats idly with them while they tug on neon green and purple wigs. It’s adorable, how unpracticed he is, how he somehow hardly seems to realize he’s gorgeous even while he’s smoldering.

“Someone’s popular,” Harry murmurs when they’ve gone, tucking himself back up next to Zayn. He lets his breath blow over Zayn’s cheek, so he can watch Zayn shiver. Yes. Finally. He can almost feel the heat building between them, about to crest.  

“Don’t know why, when you’re there,” Zayn retorts, his lips twitching. He turns, so his hands are on Harry’s waist again, so Harry’s body is between him and the con. Harry most certainly approves. He is going to get in so much trouble if pictures come out of him making out with a random guy at a convention, but right now he doesn’t care, with Zayn’s eyes focusing on his lips and their bodies pressed together. “That suit doesn’t hide anything, babe.”

“Not meant to.” Harry presses closer, so Zayn can hopefully feel everything the suit isn’t hiding. “And you appreciate it.”

“I do,” Zayn agrees. He tilts his head up, and Harry can feel the heat rising in him already, just from the anticipation—but then Zayn’s gaze falls over his shoulder. “Fuck. One sec.”

He slides out from Harry, and Harry stares forlornly at he spot where he had been for a second before he turns around to see where Zayn had gone.

When he sees, though, everything in him melts. There’s a little girl standing right at the side of the aisle, dressed in a Elsa costume, with dark hair and brown eyes that are big like she’s about to cry. Zayn’s crouched next to her, far enough away that she won’t be threatened, but close enough to comfort.

“Hey, love,” he’s murmuring, when Harry gets close enough to hear him. “You here with someone?”

“My mommy,” she tells him, her voice quavering. “I shouldn’t talk to you. You’re a stranger.”

“You’re right,” Zayn agrees. His voice is soft, gentle as silk, and somehow it fits just as well as the rough murmur of it in Harry’s ear. “But see that man?” Zayn points to someone in the bright yellow of security. “He’s a stranger, but he’s in charge here. I’m going to bring him over, so he can find your mommy, okay?”

“He’s a stranger?”

“He’s a good stranger,” Zayn assures her. “Can you stay here while I get him?”

“I can,” Harry volunteers. Zayn flashes him a quick smile before he turns back to the girl, and Harry jogs off to the security guy.

“Hey,” he says. The guy gives a huge, fully body sigh, moving all the impressive muscle mass of him, before he looks at Harry, which really Harry doesn’t blame him for. He knows how fans get.

“What do you want?” He asks. His voice is high-pitched for a big man.

Harry gives him an ingratiating smile. “There’s a little girl over there, me and my friend found her, she’s lost. Can you, like, page people?”

The guy’s whole demeanor changes when he hears it’s a real problem and not just whining, his shoulders straightening and his jaw setting. “We’ll see what we can do. Where is she?”

Harry leads him over to where Zayn’s still crouched with the girl. She’s still wary, which Harry’s glad of—it’s only safe—but she’s smiling a bit too.

The smile fades when the security guy reaches them. “He’s nice?” she asks Zayn, incredulous.

Zayn nods seriously. “Very nice. He can…” He trails off, looking up at the security guy.

“There’s a place where mommies come when they know they lost their daughters,” the guy tells the girl. He’s gentle too, like he knows kids. “It’s safe and there are toys there and you can wait while we track down your mommy.”

The girl glances at Zayn, and he nods. “Okay,” she agrees. Then she turns to Zayn, her lips still quivering. “He’ll find my mom?”

“Promise,” Zayn assures her. “If he doesn’t, I’ll find her myself.”

The girl’s eyes widen. Harry knows how she feels. The way he says it, Harry almost doesn’t doubt he would, that he would hunt down a little girl’s mom in this crowd just to make her safe. “Really?”

“It would be my pleasure, princess,” Zayn replies, straightening, and sweeps a silly bow. “I hope you’ll remember me fondly in Arendelle.”

She grins, revealing a missing front tooth, and lets the security guard lead her away.

Zayn’s chewing on his lip as he looks after them, still worried. Harry’s a bit worried too, but he’s also distracted because as much as hot guys get to him, hot guys who are good with kids are his kryptonite, and he doesn’t think he’s met any in a while, not like this. Not that have him building castles in the air. He hasn’t quite chosen the names for him and Zayn’s three adopted children yet, but that’s only because he’s debating if they’ll have a dog or a cat. It won’t happen, of course, but it’s nice to be dreaming about it.

“Sorry,” Zayn says at last, looking away. “Where were we?”

“Would you hit me if I kissed you right now?” Harry asked. It wasn’t entirely what he meant to say, but it was close enough.

Zayn’s eyes widen, then settle back into that half-smirk. “Haven’t I made that clear?”

“Just wanted to check.” Harry doesn’t ask again, just leans down, careful to only hit Zayn’s lips and not smudge the paint. The first touch of their lips is electric, like the lighting strike that hit Wally, and it only gets better as Zayn leans into him, his hands on Harry’s hips as their lips move together until someone coughs loudly and Zayn pulls back.

Harry lets him go. It’s shaken him, if he’s being honest. He’s supposed to be a movie star, he shouldn’t be this shaken up by a kiss, even if it’s with the hottest guy Harry’s ever known, even if it’s with a guy who can make kids trust him with a smile.

“I’m writing that slash crossover,” someone says, loudly, but Harry ignores it. Zayn’s eyes are wide too, and his breathing’s heavy.

“Fuck,” he swears quietly, then, “Come on.” His fingers are a vise against Harry’s forearm, and when he tugs Harry can’t help but follow, not even though he’s probably two times Zayn’s weight.

“Zayn, where—” Harry barely gets the word out before Zayn’s yanking open a door Harry had barely even noticed, revealing an empty staircase. He pulls Harry in, lets the door slam shut behind him, then thunders down the stairs with Harry a beat behind him. They hit the panel floor, then go down one more landing before Zayn lets go of Harry only to push him against the wall, and then before Harry can react Zayn’s hand is on his neck bringing him down and his lips are hot and hard and demanding against Harry’s.

If upstairs was a lightning strike this is a tsunami, and Harry pushes back, gets his hands properly in Zayn’s hair and pulls him closer. His hair’s a bit stiff with product but Harry can feel it falling apart under his fingers, can feel him falling apart even as Harry does too, their tongues sliding together. Zayn’s hands are everywhere, and Harry’s never been so thankful that the suit is skintight as he is right now, where he can almost feel the heat of Zayn’s hands as they skim down his back to settle on his ass.

“Fuck,” Zayn breathes, and moves away from Harry’s mouth to kiss at his cheekbone, “God damn it, does this fucking thing come off?” he demands, and Harry laughs, ignores the twinge that comes of imagining what Zayn would do if he did take it off, and instead uses his hands in Zayn’s hair to pull him away just enough that Harry can start exploring all the skin he has bared with his lips.

“Gonna mess up my makeup,” Zayn laughs, as Harry nips at his jaw. Harry glances up at him, at his dark eyes and swollen lips and his messy hair.

“Good,” he announces. He likes that idea. Likes the idea of Zayn being disheveled and everyone knowing what had happened, of getting Zayn’s makeup smeared around his mouth and over his cheeks so he can carry it on him even when Harry has to leave, has to take off his mask and go. So he continues tasting Zayn’s skin down his neck, as Zayn’s head drops back to give Harry better access, and his hands are still palming Harry’s ass so Harry moans into Zayn’s skin, tugs his hair a little on instinct, which pulls a groan of its own out of Zayn.

They’re pressed together so closely Harry can feel the zipper on Zayn’s jacket digging into him through the plastic, that he can smell the sweat and spice and smoke scent of his skin, that he can feel him quiver and his cock pressing against his jeans. He lets go of Zayn’s hair with one hand, because even if he can’t get anything with this stupid suit on he can still do something, and he kisses Zayn again as he slides his hand down Zayn’s chest and stomach. He’s reached the button, and Zayn is panting into his mouth, urging him on with tongue and a hint of teeth—when suddenly a door slams, and there are feet on the stairs, and Zayn jolts back.

“Shit!” A voice comes, from above them, and Harry looks up to see a guy in street clothes looking down at them, next to a very interested Harley Quinn. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No problem,” Harry calls back, with his best paparazzi ‘nothing to see here’ tone. “Just—”

“C’mon, Tommy,” the girl urges, tugging on the guy’s arm, “Leave them alone.”

“People making out in public stairwell deserve to be mocked,” he retorts, but he lets himself be pulled away.

Harry looks back down at Zayn—but he can’t read Zayn’s expression, doesn’t know what it means when he’s biting his lip and looking away. He wants to, wants to know every one of Zayn’s expressions, from the one he makes when he’s about to come to this one. He wants to know why he tastes of smoke and how he did the flames on his neck so well. He wants to dig in Zayn and know him from the inside out, like he hasn’t known anyone before.

But he only gets today, because it could never work really, so instead of any of that,

“So,” Harry says. The mood’s pretty clearly been broken, but he leaves his hands on Zayn’s shoulders, because they fit nicely there and if he lets go he’s afraid Zayn will go forever.

“Yeah.” Zayn’s still chewing on his lip, and he brings one hand up to tug on his ear. He’s embarrassed, Harry realizes. It’s sweet, sweeter than he realized, because how could he be embarrassed when he looks like that? “So, I, should—” _kiss me again_ , Harry wants to say, _kiss me until I’ve forgotten I’m not actually this boy who likes acting who lives in New York who’s just wandering around a con._ “Probably go get in line for the panel.”

“What?” It isn’t that late. It can’t be that late. But when Zayn pulls out his phone, it’s already 4:45. “Do you—like, now?”

“Probably,” Zayn says, and eases away from Harry. That is probably the worst idea he’s ever had, Harry decides, which might be a bit presumptuous given he doesn’t know him very well and doesn’t know many of his decisions, but it’s probably up there. So Harry takes it upon himself to fix it, and tucks himself close again, an arm around Zayn’s waist. Zayn laughs, and lets his own hand settle on the small of Harry’s back. It’s a lovely sound. It’s a lovely feeling.

“I’ll walk you there,” Harry decides. Anything for a bit more time. Liam won’t mind if he’s a little late. They’ll understand. He wants to be this person a little longer, wants to be this person who could go out with someone like Zayn without all the shit he brings to the table.

“No delaying,” Zayn warns. “Harry Styles and Liam Payne are both going to be there, I need good seats.”

There’s probably a way for Harry to reserve seats for him up front, but Harry can’t think of one that won’t also involve him telling Zayn who he is. And if he sits up front than Harry will be able to see him when he takes off the mask and Harry’s not sure he wants that. Or maybe he doesn’t want Zayn to be able to see him too well. Or maybe he just wants Zayn to stay near him as long as possible, to keep this dream of a day going.

Harry’s not sure, but he does know he wants to kiss Zayn again, so he presses a quick kiss to his cheek, on those sharp bones. “Would I ever delay you?”

“Bet so,” Zayn replies, raising an eyebrow as they maneuver up the stairs. Harry laughs, and doesn’t deny it.

It’s crowded upstairs. Harry had almost forgotten in that stairwell, but there are masses of people up here, and they merge into the crowd, still connected as many places as they can as Zayn leads them down the hall to where the line up is for the Main Stage. It’s even more mad than upstairs, almost, but Zayn seems to know all the nooks and crannies and just before they get to where their wristbands are checked he pulls Harry to the side, where at least they aren’t getting jostled, even if there’s no privacy.

“So,” Harry starts. He doesn’t know what to say. Thanks for a great day? Thanks for kissing me like I don’t think I’ve felt before? I wish this could work out for real? “You look a bit of a mess.”

He does, his hair a mess, his makeup smudged so it’s just a mess of red and yellow now, not recognizable as flames on most of him. It’s even hotter, knowing he did that. Knowing that will last at least a day.

But Zayn just shakes his head. “Find me after?” he asks. He’s smiling, almost, something shy in it, something not at all like the boy who had dragged him into a stairwell not an hour earlier. “I can meet you here, yeah?”

Harry has a signing afterwards. He won’t be here. He’ll be at a big table smiling at strangers, which is great, because he loves his job and he loves his fans, loves them even more now that he knows what this place is about, but it means he won’t be here. “Yeah,” he says, though, because he wants these minutes. Because he wants to think of Zayn smiling at him, wanting him, wanting more of him. “Here at seven, right?”

“Right.” Zayn grins then, big and bright, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and he leans in and pecks Harry once on the lips. “Good.”

Harry grabs at his waist, pulls him in again. He doesn’t want to let this go. He doesn’t want to take off this mask. “One more,” he declares, and kisses Zayn again, longer but still chaste, trying to put all the _thank you_ and _I’m glad I found you_ and _I wish things were different_ in it. Then he lets Zayn go. Zayn grins at him again, then he ducks back into the crowd, and Harry loses him almost immediately.

\---

Harry finds the backstage area pretty easily, then tugs off his hood, shakes out his hair. God, it’s good to have that thing off, despite everything. His head feels free again, and the headache he thinks was building is gone. He wanders around until he finds where he’s supposed to be, then proceeds to ignore his publicist yelling at him for running away until they run out of steam, when he gives her an apologetic smile which seems to work. She sighs and laughs, because despite everything she’s worked with Harry for years and knows how he is, then leads him over to where the other panelists are waiting. He knows all of them—they’re all working on the movie, obviously—so he just smiles until Liam grabs his arm and pulls him aside.

“So,” Liam asks. He’s got his concerned face on, which always makes Harry feel squirmy inside, and not in the good way. “Enjoy the con?”

“I’m fine, Liam,” Harry replies. It’s not an answer. He kind of wishes Liam would let that be, but Liam’s never let anything be in his life, and sometimes it’s nice and sometimes it’s really irritating.

“And what about your _friend_?”

Harry just shrugs. “He just showed me around the con,” he says, but he’s a shit liar, and it must show because Liam smirks.

“You’ve got some stuff on your face,” he points out, and Harry can’t help his dirty grin.

“He might have shown me some less crowded places,” he admits, and Liam hoots his laugh.

“Only you could find someone to hook up with at a moment’s notice,” he teases. Then, when he notices Harry isn’t laughing quite so much, the concerned face comes back. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry smiles. It feels a little forced, so he thinks of the enthusiasm on the floor, thinks of how people had admired the costume and had talked excitedly about the panel, and tries again. It feels better this time. “I’m fine. Just nervous.”

“You’ve never been nervous in front of an audience,” Liam argues, but he gives Harry a quick hug anyway, because he’s the best, and spends the next forty-five minutes distracting Harry by telling him stories about conventions he went to before he was famous, and Harry doesn’t think about Zayn in line out there at all.

It’s silly, is the thing. He only met Zayn a few hours ago. And sure, Zayn’s hot, and kissing him felt like he was on fire, and he saved a little girl, but he doesn’t really know Zayn. He shouldn’t be obsessing like this. He knows better than to think a few hours can mean anything. But Zayn was lovely and sweet and hot and Harry wants to know him.

“Okay, we’re going on,” his publicist tells him, and helps him tuck his hair back under the hood so they can do a big reveal thing. Harry files in last, and the applause is thunderous and the lights blinding as he settles onto his seat.

Once he gets used to them, the lights aren’t as bright as they are in theaters, so he can basically see the crowd. It’s a great view—there are all sorts of cosplays, at least ten Flashes Harry can see, a few Green Lanterns too, which will make Liam happy because he wasn’t allowed to wear his suit to the panel for some reason. He scans the audience as the moderator—a woman who runs a popular fansite—talks, introduces the panel, then she starts introducing people. She starts with one of the writers, closest to her—and somehow, miraculously, horribly, Harry finds Zayn.

He’s sitting with Niall, Louis, and a pretty dark-haired girl Harry assumes is Louis’s girlfriend, about midway back but close to an aisle. Harry can’t make out expressions from here, but he can imagine the excited look, like at the other panels. The way he’d lean forward, intent. How maybe he hasn’t recognized the suit yet, how he might be a little distracted, thinking about the guy he thinks he’ll meet afterwards.

“And of course, you all know the fabulous Liam Payne, our Green Lantern,” the moderator says, and Liam waves and grins as cheers echo and Harry can just see Louis wolf whistle.

“And last but not least,” she goes on, “Coming as his alter-ego the fastest man alive—Harry Styles!” Harry pulls off the hood and grins as cheers ring out for him too, probably louder than for Liam, if he was competing, which he’s not even if it’s good to know. He shakes out his hair and waves to the crowd at large, then leans down to the mic.

“Thanks for having us,” he says to the moderator, then, to the crowd, “And thank you New York!”

The screams thunder out, and Harry grins to himself. This, he knows. This, he can do. This—through the crowd, Harry catches sight of someone getting up. He watches, the moderator starting her first question, as quietly, without any fuss, Zayn gets up out of his seat, and walks down the aisle out of the room.

\---

It’s nothing Harry didn’t expect, Harry tells himself, and because he’s a professional he pushes it to the back of his mind for the panel, as he answers questions about how thrilled he is to be here and how excited he is for the movie and also for his conceptions of the characters. There’s a q&a at the end, which Harry was a little worried about, because if his lack of nerd knowledge—all the stuff Louis was scoffing about—was going to come out, it would be then, but it’s actually pretty chill, a combination of people asking him about specific thoughts about the film, and about himself, and Harry loves this part of his job, talking to fans. It’s nice that they’re this excited.

The last question he’s asked is from a guy in a Pikachu costume, which is nice because Harry can identify it. “So how are you liking your first con?” he asks.

Harry can’t help his smile. “It’s been amazing,” he tells the crowd, and waits for the cheers to die down before he goes on. “I’d never even thought about going to one of these before, but I was on the floor earlier, and it was awesome. Like a—a friend of mine said,” he says, before he can think, but it’s not like anyone will know what he’s talking about, unless Louis or Niall tell Zayn for some reason, “This is a place where you can be someone else for a little while, and as an actor, obviously I think that’s brilliant. You’re all brilliant,” he adds, and lets the cheers carry him off-stage.

They’re taken to the signing almost immediately, with just enough time to grab a quick bathroom break backstage before they’re hurried into the signing hall. The line’s massive, but it’s pretty mindless in the best way, the sort of way that means Harry can’t think about anything at all, not even about what Zayn might be thinking right now. It shouldn’t matter, he tells himself as he scribbles his name on the poster they’re providing if people don’t bring something else, he shouldn’t matter. Except somehow he does, or Harry thinks he could, and it hurts him to know he might have hurt someone. Even if there’s no point, because Harry’s a movie star and Zayn’s not, and they live in two different worlds that won’t be able to mix, and there’s no getting around that.

He signs name after name, smiles at face after face, says “Hello” and “Thanks” to the gushing fans, occasionally makes faces at Liam to keep himself entertained, then—

“You’re a dick, you know that?” Harry’s head jerks up and his gaze focuses at the high, sharp voice. For half a second he hopes Zayn’s there, even if it wouldn’t change anything—but he finds two pairs of blue eyes and a confused set of brown looking at him, but none of that clear hazel Harry thinks he might have memorized already.

Security moves forward, but Harry waves them away with an, “It’s okay, they’re cool.” Louis snorts. Harry leans forward, over the table. “I’m sorry—”

“We didn’t stand in line for an apology,” Louis snaps. “We stood in line to tell you you’re an asshole.”

Harry glances around, but the people behind them in line are starting to listen in, and he can’t do this here. Can’t do this at all, really, because it was just—it’s the con. It’s the con and the mask and all the things he’d let himself be, but he’s not really. “Do you want something signed?” he asks instead, “Now that you’ve called me an asshole?”

“No,” Louis spits. Then, “Yes. I want you to sign it so Zayn can burn it cathartically once he can look at your face without feeling awful again.”

Harry’s…not sure what to say to that, honestly, but he signs a poster and hands it across the table. Louis snatches it from him, gives him a final glare, and stalks off, his girlfriend rolling her eyes and following him away like she’s amused and resigned to his behavior.

“He won’t really,” Niall adds easily. Harry hadn’t realized he hadn’t left.

“What?”

“He won’t burn it. He’ll probably frame it,” Niall explains, with a quick grin. Then it fades, and something harder comes onto his face, something all the more intimidating because it looks so unnatural on him. “But that wasn’t cool, man. You shouldn’t have lied to Zayn.” He nods at Harry, then wanders off too.

Harry doesn’t have a chance to think about it, because the next person is there handing him a Flash t-shirt and he’s scrawling his name over it. He thinks he catches a glimpse of Liam giving him one of his squinty-eyed concerned looks, but he just doesn’t have time.

It’s only once the signing’s over, and they’re given a second to relax, that the words sink in. Harry knows he lied, sort of, and it was kind of an asshole move. He can’t regret it, but he hopes it didn’t hurt Zayn badly. He hopes Zayn can remember today like Harry will, with fondness and regret that he couldn’t know him, not really. That they didn’t get the happily ever after they might have gotten in another universe.

Liam still doesn’t say anything when they get up, though he sidles in close to Harry, a silent offer of support that Harry really appreciates. The way they’re taken out is a little bit through the crowd, though there’s security around them, separating them from the people Harry had been with just a little while ago. He’d been part of that crowd, and now he’s stuck here, outside of it. As Zayn’s mixed up in it, fading away by the minute.

“Mr. Flash!” The little girl voice makes him look around, so he catches sight of the little girl Zayn helped earlier charging towards him, through the security guards. “Mr. Flash!” she repeats, ignoring everyone looking at her. “Hi!”

“Hi!” Harry grins, and gestures at security to stand down, and to let the tired-looking woman chasing her through too.

“Michaela, you can’t run away like that!” The woman scolds, grabbing the girl’s arm. “I’m so sorry,” the woman tells the guards, Liam, Harry, anyone she can see, “She just got away again, I—”

“It’s okay mom, he helped me before,” the girl—Michaela—informs her, then turns to Harry, and holds out her hand solemnly. “I wanted to thank you for helping me.”

“You’re very welcome,” Harry replies, and shakes her hand, even if he can’t help his grin.

“You were the one who found her?” her mother asks, and a smile breaks out over her face that makes her suddenly beautiful. “Oh my god, I can’t thank you enough.”

“It was nothing, just passing her off to a security guard. And it was really my friend,” he replies. Security is shifting nervously, but Harry ignores them. “You found her all right?”

“Yes, thank god.” Her hand rests unconsciously on her daughter’s shoulder, like she’s reassuring herself that the girl’s still there. “Bless you, sir, really.”

“It was nothing,” Harry repeats, “I—”

He stops when Michaela tugs on his arm to get him to pay attention to her. “Where’s the flame man?” she demands. “I wanted to thank him too. You helped, but he saved me,” she tells her mother.

“He’s not here right now. But I know he’d be glad to know you’re safe,” Harry tells her. He is sure of it. He wishes he could let Zayn know, somehow, but it’s not like he could ever find him again. That’s over.

She nods. “He’s my hero,” she states. Then, her voice dropping to a whisper as she tells Harry confidentially, “I’m gonna marry him.”

Harry can’t help beaming down at her. At this little girl who, at this moment at least, believes that she can marry a boy she met for a few seconds, because she was a princess and he was a hero and that was how things worked. Who believed, with the little kid, all consuming belief, that things worked out in the end. Who didn’t care that she was in a princess costume and he had flames painted on his face, that maybe they weren’t who they said they were. Who just knew what she wanted and was sure it would happen.

Harry misses that belief. Harry wants to believe like that again. Harry wants his chance at happily ever after.

So he thinks of the way Zayn had smiled at Michaela, and at how he had looked at Harry, full of heat, and grins. “Not if I marry him first,” he warns, and chuckles as she scoffs.

\---

He has a name. It’s not much, but it’s something, and he also has the internet and a lot of determination. So that night, back in his apartment, he settles down on his bed with his computer. There can’t be too many Zayns in the New York City area.

There are. Googling proves fruitless, and a Facebook search and a Twitter search turn up a lot of results but none with the right pictures or interests. Harry tries filtering by also searching for ‘comics’, but that doesn’t really help. So he moves on to Niall, because that’s a weirder name, he hopes, and he had some big name job, so he’s probably on the Internet. Unfortunately, Harry can’t actually remember the name of his firm, so that doesn’t help either. And Louis and school isn’t going to help at all.

Finally, after an hour, he closes his computer again. This clearly is not going to work, not this way. He knows things about Zayn—knows the shape of his lips when he smiles, how his mouth tastes, how his eyes light up when he talks about Batman, how his hands roam and squeeze when he’s exploring Harry’s body—but he doesn’t actually know anything concrete, so he needs a new strategy. All he knows is that his first name is Zayn, he’s the hottest thing on the planet, he inspired a comic book character, and he works at DC—works at DC!

Harry grabs for his phone, checks the time—it’s only ten, it’s not that rude, and this is an emergency—and hits Liam’s number.

Liam answers on the second ring, because he’s reliable like that. “Hi!” he yells into the phone. There’s the sound of a club in the background. Harry’s pretty impressed he heard his phone. “Harry!”

“Hey,” Harry replies. He would be laughing, but he just hopes Liam is sober enough to recognize the direness of this situation. “You still have friends who work at DC, right?”

“You mean Chaz! Chaz is great!” Liam laughs, big and loud. “Got me a first edition…” Harry waits patiently as Liam expounds on how great this comic is. If he’s going to ask a huge favor, it’s only fair he listens to Liam. Also, Zayn is into comics too, so he should learn these things.

Finally, Liam winds down, so Harry can ask, “He works in New York, right?”

“Yeah, in the greatest city on earth!” Liam yells, and gets a whoop back from the crowd of whatever club he’s at.

“Can you do me a huge favor, then?” Harry asks, and tells Liam what he needs. Liam laughs, but he promises to text Chaz immediately, before he gets distracted by something and hangs up.

It’s something. It’s not a huge hope, because for all Harry knows Zayn works somewhere completely different or was a hallucination, but it’s something. It’s enough that he can get to sleep, and dreams of pumpkins and mice and magic wands and fire licking over his skin.

\---

Liam hasn’t called him back when he wakes up, which he tries to justify as just him probably still being asleep after last night. Or maybe Chaz needs some time. It’s only been eight hours, after all. That’s not really a lot of time to track someone down, even if they look like Zayn and Harry can’t believe that everyone doesn’t notice him. So he goes to the gym, makes himself breakfast, and goes on Twitter for a while before he breaks down and starts to stare at his phone. A watched phone might ring.

But it’s not until about eleven that it does. Well, it rings before that, but that’s just Harry’s agent, asking about Comicon, and his mum, and some texts from random friends, which are actually enough to distract him until Liam finally does call back.

“Yeah?” Harry answers. Then, because he can’t not, “Hi, Liam. How are you?”

“Hungover,” Liam admits, but cheerfully enough. “So. I talked to Chaz.”

“Yeah?” Harry drums his fingers over his thigh. If this doesn’t work, he might have to resort to marshaling his twitter followers, and that could be dangerous to everyone involved. “Did you get anything?”

Liam hesitates. “Harry. You do know this is kind of creepy, right? A little stalkery. And you don’t even know if he wants to see you.”

“I know.” Harry knows, he’s just been trying not to think about it. If he just explains to Zayn, maybe he can make it work. Maybe. “I have to try, though.”

“Why?” Liam sounds honestly curious. “Why him? Not that he doesn’t sound cool and all, but you only just met him.”

Harry stares at the granite countertop, trying to sort through that. He’s not sure, really. He just knows he has to. “I just—I really liked him,” he admits. He traces a finger through the condensation, making a lightning bolt like the one on his suit. On the Flash’s suit. “He made me feel…” Like he was flying. Like he could do anything. Like he was worth everything, not as Harry Styles famous actor, but as him. “Just really good. And I know lying to him might have hurt him, and he probably doesn’t want to see me, but—what if he does?”

“Harry…”

“Liam, I just have to do this.” He can’t explain it more than that. He has to do this. He has to prove that sometimes the ball doesn’t have to end at midnight. “Did you find anything?”

Liam sighs gustily, but Harry knows that sigh. It’s his giving in sigh. “You’re in luck,” he says, slowly. Harry doesn’t really care how unsure he is, as long as he tells Harry. “Apparently him inspiring Ghostrider was a big deal, so it identified him pretty quickly. And Chaz is actually friendly with him. He’s gone to a party at his place before. He gave me the address.”

“Really! Liam, you’re the best!” It means something. That it worked. That Harry’s best friend happened to know the right people, that Harry can get his hold on it this easily. It has to mean something.

“You owe me about a thousand favors, because that’s how much I had to promise Chaz for him to give up his co-worker,” Liam warns. “Also, I had to tell him it was true love.”

Harry’s lips press together. He’s not sure it’s love. Love is big and scary and overwhelming. But he doesn’t object, because it got him Zayn’s address. “So you have his address?” Harry presses.

“I’ll text it.” Liam pauses. “Just—be careful, okay? We don’t need a video of you getting slapped right before the movie comes out.”

Harry rubs his cheek reflexively. “He won’t slap me,” Harry informs Liam, more certainly than he feels. “And I’ll make sure there are no cameras.”

“Good.” Harry can hear the smile in Liam’s voice. “Go get ‘em, Flash.”

“Love you!” Harry replies, and hangs up before heading to the shower. If he’s going to make a romantic gesture, he’s going to look the part.

\---

Zayn lives in a building on the Upper West Side, near Columbia. It’s nice, Harry thinks, pulling his beanie down farther to make sure no one sees him when he walks from the cab to Zayn’s door. It feels almost collegiate, how there are all sorts of young people around, the trees on the street and the sounds of Broadway filtering over even here. It’s a far cry from the sweeping panes of glass and metal and traffic of Harry’s Tribeca apartment, but Harry likes it.

He even likes the dirty tiled hallway he goes into when, luckily enough, a woman’s coming out of the building and holds the door. She gives him a quick look from behind big glasses, the sort of ‘do I recognize you?’ glances New Yorkers tend to give him because they’d never admit they actually know him, but he moves past her quickly enough he doesn’t think she settles on someone.

Zayn’s on the third floor. He goes up the stairs slowly, rehearsing his speech, clutching the peonies he had bought last minute, but eventually he does get in front of 3B. The door’s a thick metal door, scraped with years of living, but Harry screws up his courage, puts on his best charming smile—and rings the bell.

There’s an instant clicking of nails and some quiet barking, but it’s another few seconds of waiting and listening to the dog nosing at the door before it swings open, and Zayn’s there, and everything Harry wanted to say falls out of his mind.

He looks different, away from the con, out of his cosplay. He’s in sweatpants and a tank top that reveal all of the ink on his arms and chest and Harry wasn’t expecting all of that, just like he wasn’t expecting the soft messy hair falling around his face and almost into his eyes, or how the stubble that’s taken the place of the paint on his cheeks, or the cat cradled in his arms or the dog whose collar he’s got a hand hooked into. It looks soft and inviting and somehow it computes with the guy who had made sure a little girl got safely to her mother.

He was, however, expecting the widening of Zayn’s eyes, the shock that makes his shoulders tighten.

“Hi,” Harry says, before Zayn can say anything or even shut the door. “I just—I wanted to apologize. For yesterday. For, like, lying and all, not for flirting or kissing you because that was great, but for not telling you who I was or anything, even though I didn’t really lie ever, I just sort of avoided the truth because I liked not being famous for a day and I liked how you flirted even without knowing who I was, and I didn’t mean to hurt you but if I did I’m sorry.”

Zayn stares for a second, then lets go of the cat, who lands on the floor, twines around Zayn’s legs once—he’s barefoot, Harry notices, and somehow Harry loves that, how comfortable he looks—before disappearing behind him. He keeps his hand on the dog’s collar, though it’s stopped trying to reach Harry and is just panting excitedly.

“It wasn’t exactly that you hurt me.” Zayn speaks slowly, like he’s considering each word, a far cry from how he enthused about things at the con. “It was more that, like, you made me feel like a right idiot.” He presses his lips together, considering. “Like, all the shit I said—we said—about the movie and you and all. Must have seemed stupid as hell. And then, fuck, kissing in the stairway…I felt stupid. Like you were laughing at me the whole time.”

“I wasn’t!” Harry protests. “I promise. I had just wanted to see the con from the other side, really? And then I met you and if I had told you it would have been different. But now you know!” He dimples hopefully, and doesn’t bother to hide the heat in his gaze as he looks at Zayn, all the patterns on his skin he wants to taste. He’s here. He found him. “And I didn’t lie about anything, not really. We still—it’s not seven, but it’s after. I found you.”

Zayn doesn’t move, though his fingers scratch over the dog’s head. Harry shifts between his feet. He hasn’t been this nervous in a while, but somehow this guy chewing on his bottom lip has taken away all of Harry’s armor. Taken off all his masks. “Thing is,” Zayn starts, his voice just as rough and wonderful as it was yesterday. He doesn’t seem mad. He seems more…sad, somehow, in a way that makes Harry want to hug him and make him laugh and chase the look out of his eyes. “Yesterday—like, at the con—I’m…” Harry watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I didn’t lie either. About the being a different person thing, I mean. I’m not, like, in real life I don’t flirt with random hot guys.” Good. Harry wants to be special. “I don’t kiss them when I’ve known them for a few hours. I’m, like, just about the most stereotypical nerd you know. I don’t go out much or anything.” Harry nods, like he knows where this is going, even if he doesn’t really. “I’m not the guy you met, not really. And you’re fucking Harry Styles.” He waves a hand, like he’s taking in all of Harry. “So, like…” he trails off.

Harry takes a deep breath. He gets it. And he knows this won’t be easy, because he brings a lot of baggage to this table, and their worlds are totally different. But Zayn saved a little girl, and he kissed Harry like a lightning strike, and he has a dog and a cat and Harry doesn’t know anything about him but he found him anyway, out of all the people in New York, fit the clues together to find him even after the con was done.

So Harry shifts the flowers to his left hand, and smiles as widely and invitingly as he can. “Hi,” he grins in the face of Zayn’s confusion. “I’m Harry Styles. I’m an actor. I don’t know much about comics even though I’m the new Flash, and I still don’t know how I feel about superheroes. I like to bake and I tend to ramble. I brought flowers to a boy I met yesterday because he’s really hot and I really liked him, and because the little girl he saved yesterday wanted me to thank him for her, and also I had to beat her to you because she said she’s going to marry you so I had to make sure I got here first.” Zayn’s lips twitch at that, and Harry counts it as a good sign, and tries to get back on track. “And because I want to get to know who you are outside the con, and for you to know me outside of it, because I really liked you, in or out of costume, and I want to see if this can work.” He holds out the flowers, puts on his best puppy dog eyes. “Can I come in?”

Zayn gives him a long, searching look, that makes Harry feel stripped naked, like Zayn can see inside of him, all the lies and guilt and uncertainty and cynicism and worry and little vices, but maybe he can see the other parts, the hope and the belief, that this might have been more than a few hours, that this could last once the masks are off, the belief that let Harry find him. That they can build a happily ever after.

Then Zayn nods, and his smile is soft and small and mainly in the edges of his eyes. “Yeah,” he says, and holds the door open wider. “Come on in.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Want to talk about it? Comment or come say hi on [ tumblr!](http://ridiculouslittleidiots.tumblr.com/)


End file.
